


A Conundrum of Charms

by genarti



Category: Kate and Cecelia - Caroline Stevermer & Patricia Wrede
Genre: Case Fic, Epistolary, Extremely low-stakes case fic, Family, Friendship, Gen, mediocre embroidery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 05:58:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13047921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genarti/pseuds/genarti
Summary: Dear Readers,When a scullery maid in the Tarleton household finds a charm bag under her mattress, it's certainly enough mystery to liven up our days -- especially since Cecy is expecting, and can't work magic until the child is born!  Luckily, we adore a mystery.  And our ladies' maids, Reardon and Walker, are no slouches themselves at helping us sort out pickles.Love,Kate and Cecy





	A Conundrum of Charms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hippolytas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippolytas/gifts).



A Conundrum of Charms

**23 April, 1818  
Tangleford Hall, Kent**

_Dearest Kate,_

Finally, _finally_ , the dreadful storms seem to have finished! Today is grey and dreary, once again, but no howling winds threatening to tear the roof off. Of course the roof is perfectly secure really, but it did _sound_ dreadful. And the poor farmers do not all have such sturdy roofs as we. Poor James has been spending half his time helping with roof repair (it seems he acquired some skill at that in the war, peculiarly enough), half his time fussing over me, and another half writing letters back and forth with the Duke of Wellington about something political he refuses to divulge, and if you think that’s too many halves you have an idea of how much he’s been sleeping. The poor man is nearly done to a cow’s thumb. I tell him that I sleep best when he’s home and asleep beside me, not writing letters by candlelight. It’s true, of course, but I’m not above using what I suspect Aunt Charlotte would call _wiles_. But I can hardly tell him that I don’t sleep as well when he’s off repairing roofs, can I? Even if it’s true!

But oh, Kate, I confide to you how dreadfully _wearing_ pregnancy is! I feel right now that I can hardly wait for my confinement. It isn’t discomfort, so don’t fret about that. Physically, I feel very well! Oh, it’s certainly _peculiar_ to feel one’s body rearranging itself around a little growing baby. The most peculiar thing I have ever felt, I think! But it’s not painful in the slightest. I do find myself taking more naps than I used to, but a nap in a feather bed on a rainy day is no trial at all.

No, the difficulty is magic. Dr Barrows had told me that a woman in my condition ought not to work any magic. However, he also told me, “So you’ll have to leave off enchanting your hair-ribbons and such, my dear,” with the beautiful self-assurance of a man who has no idea what he’s talking about, and he actually patted my hand before he left, so I had hoped he was merely repeating some pet theory which I could safely ignore. Alas, Mrs Pyecroft stopped by yesterday and confirmed it. 

You, like I, will remember Mrs Pyecroft best for the incident with Squire Bryant’s chickens, but she is also a very reassuring midwife. I like her manner much better than Dr Barrows’, I must say. Unfortunately, she agreed with him that an expecting woman should not do even the slightest bit of magic. Being _around_ magic is perfectly fine, it seems -- at least, so long as I do not rashly permit dangerous spells to be worked upon me, which of course I have never had the slightest intention of doing. “There’s no harm in a charm bag, Mrs Tarleton,” she said to me. (I do still love hearing myself called Mrs Tarleton, I confess.) “Many’s the woman who’s slept with one under her pillow all the months of her time. But you mustn’t make it yourself. I’ll be happy to do you a nice protective bag, unless you have someone else in mind.”

Well, of course I was set back to hear that. I said to her, “But why can’t I make it myself? I could do a charm bag when I hadn’t been trained in magic in the least!” Dr Barrows had not explained matters _at all_ , though I think he was quite convinced he had done so. I was hopeful that a woman might do a better job of it.

She patted my hand in that implacable way of hers, and replied, “If it were only a matter of mixing herbs, you could, but all you’d get from that would be an herb sachet. Charm bags have magic worked into them.”

“Well, of course I know that,” I said. I don’t think it sounded at all testy, which I am rather proud of, for I certainly felt like snapping.

“I don’t think you need worry that it would hurt the baby,” she told me, which relieved my mind a great deal. “I have heard doctors, men I mean, insist that it must. But I have never heard of magic harming a little one as long as it wasn’t a great working of the sort that would twist up anybody’s insides.” 

That un-relieved my mind somewhat, dear cousin, since I was not at all sure what she meant by that! If she meant the sort of thing the late Miranda Griscomb might have gotten up to, then of course I have no interest in working anything of the sort. As for other people working such spells, though, of course I should only have to avoid such messes as that for six or so months more, but neither you nor I have not always been lucky at avoiding such things. And if Mrs Pyecroft meant any sort of great magic -- for you know she only does charm work and midwife-spells -- then that is the sort of thing I have often discovered the seriousness of only after I’ve already encountered it, or worked it myself quite by accident.

But she continued -- and I don’t know why she hadn’t begun with this in the first place -- “The main trouble is that it simply won’t work. The energies of your body are changing their accustomed paths considerably while you have a baby to nourish in your womb. Any spells you try to work during this time will almost certainly not have the expected results. Most likely, nothing will happen at all.

“A most convincing argument,” I said, glumly. “Thank you, Mrs Pyecroft.”

And, just as when Dr Barrows gave his much more dictatorial version of this advice, I have been wild to work magic ever since. I spent most of my life working no magic at all, so I would not have thought that setting it aside for a few months would be such a difficulty! But you know me, dear cousin. As soon as someone tells me sternly that I must not do a thing I feel perfectly capable of, I want nothing more than to do it on the spot. 

Of course I won’t! Don’t worry for me. You needn’t advise me of the good sense of listening to Mrs Pyecroft, for I intend to do so. But I shan’t be cheerful about it. It is particularly lowering to be obliged to heed good advice one dislikes.

At least I managed to dissuade Aunt Charlotte from tearing herself from Georgy’s side to come and _care for me as my poor dear mother cannot_ , as she piously puts it. I’m sure Georgy would much prefer me to have failed in this, but really, Aunt Charlotte’s presence on top of everything else would be the outside of enough. Besides, James would probably throw her out for upsetting me in my delicate condition, and then we would have to deal with not only gossips but also Aunt Charlotte feeling ill-treated for the next ten years.

All my love,  
Cecy

_Later:_

I’m certainly glad I hadn’t sealed this yet! My dear, I have a mystery on my hands. Walker came to me with the enclosed charm bag, which the scullery maid found beneath her bed. The girl apparently shrieked, went running for Cook, and generally set the household in an uproar. I was out walking in the garden with James at the time, and thus missed the entire thing. “So now, madame,” says Walker, “she has made a great event of a very very little one. Me, I think it must be that there is a simple explanation. But half the servants are now convinced that another vicious wizard may be after us all. Pah! As if a vicious wizard would stoop to charm bags! The other half, they are of my opinion. They are exasperated with her, and think she is being very silly.”

“Well, of course she is,” I said, “but I admit it would give one quite a start to find a mysterious charm bag in one’s own bed.” Especially after all that business with Sir Hilary, and whatever they may have heard of our honeymoon.

So Walker will go and make further inquiries, and meanwhile I enclose this bag. It’s been opened, so it’s of no use any longer, whatever use it was meant to be. I can’t tell at all. It only looks like a mess of dried herbs to me, but so does every charm bag; it is quite impossible to tell apart a lot of bits of finely minced herbs, particularly when they are all mixed together. Could you please ask Thomas to take a look at it? I am being very dutiful and not even trying magic, though it drives me up the wall to see it sitting before me as if taunting me with my inability to perform even the simplest diagnostic. (That is the other reason I’m posting it straight off to you.) And without diagnostics, all I can tell is that there was some kind of magic associated with it at some point, but not very strong. I haven’t the slightest idea what sort. That is, I can feel that it was of some particular sort, but I have not progressed enough in my studies to tell what. I presume it was not about pregnancy, with the girl all of nine years old, but that’s all. The wobbly lightning strike (or is it a very jagged snake, perhaps, or merely a very badly executed S?) on that dark splotchy fabric certainly looks ominous, but it may be mere sloppiness. I do hope you and Thomas can help!

_All my love,  
Your perplexed cousin Cecy_

 

**23 April, 1818  
Tangleford Hall, Kent**

_(translated from French)_

_My dear Madame Reardon,_

I had intended in any case to write you this week to inquire about how you are, and how matters go with your household in Skeynes. (I am spelling that right, am I not? I try, but English spelling makes so much less sense to me than French! I’m nowhere near so learned as you; I feel I can confidently say I speak two languages, until I try to spell these English place names.) It was so nice to see you when the Schofields were visiting a few weeks ago, and I was glad to hear your travel home went smoothly. Since then I have been busy every moment, with letting out gowns and putting together others for later months, and helping Cook deliver hampers and warm hand-me-downs to the families who have been put out by all these dreadful rains. But now I have a more urgent matter to put before you.

I don’t know if you will have heard from Mme Kate about this matter, since I believe Madame is writing to her cousin, but I wanted to open it to you in any case. I hope very much that you will have some advice on how to proceed. I am comfortable with the usual matters of running a household, of course, but my magical talent is nonexistent, as you know, and my magical education is the same.

Here is what happened: Suzie Brown, whom you will remember is the new scullery maid, has found a charm bag under her mattress. She is a good girl and a good worker, but I fear she is prone to fancies as so many young girls are. In short, she had hysterics. She ought to have brought it quietly to me, or at least to Cook, but instead the entirety of belowstairs is gossiping over the matter.

Madame and Monsieur were walking in the garden, mercifully, and missed the entire thing. Of course I brought the matter to Madame as soon as it was easily practicable. In another household, I might have considered it something to be dealt with belowstairs, and not troubled my employer with the small worries of a scullery maid. But Madame, I believe, prefers to be troubled with matters rather than kept out of them. (Monsieur might prefer that Madame be spared all worry, especially now that she is in _a delicate condition_ as the English say, but Monsieur is not paying my salary, and it is my private opinion that he thinks all manner of perfectly reasonable concerns are too much worry for the feminine mind to be taxed with. He is a very good man, and a very intelligent man as well as learned, but I have faith that Madame will bring him to more common sense as well.)

But I’ve wandered away from the subject. I always do that! You are very forgiving about it. Here is my difficulty: I know very little of charm bags except how to purchase a few kinds, and those in the French style. Madame knows more, but she says she is at a loss with this one, without her ability to work a spell upon it. (She chafes at this restriction, but even I know it to be perfectly correct. I was warned when I was carrying my little Annalise to avoid magic, myself. Of course, in my case such a warning was entirely unnecessary.) I know that you have no more magical skill than I, but you have a great deal more education.

I wish to be of use to Madame. She saved me from a very difficult situation, she brought me to England with her, she is kind and generous, she respects my capabilities. She has allowed me to remain respectable, as well as giving me a very good post. I do not wish to lose it. (“But Walker,” you will say, “is that truly a danger? You are being dramatic again.” Perhaps I am, but I do not wish to fail her. If she had sworn before a court of English law that I would be employed by her always, if we were on every footing of equality that my country believed we might be before little Bonaparte had his way, I would still consider myself indebted by honour, and I would wish to be of use to Madame Cecilia.)

So, my dear Reardon, I beg of you to help me. What should I look for? Is there any help, any advice you can give? Of course I know about the little household dramas one always has, I know how to look innocent and foreign at visitors and how to look stern at little maids and what it looks like when a girl is concealing some rashness with a beau. And Monsieur’s valet Parker is a very useful fellow for taking the same approach with the stable boys and footmen. My instinct, not to mention logic, says that at least one of the other maids is concealing something; that is, logic says that _someone_ must have tucked such a thing under Suzie’s bed, and my instinct says a certain other maid is concealing something, which may or may not be related to this. But I don’t know what to look for as proof that someone has been making charm bags, short of catching the villain midway through constructing another.

Well, I must return to my duties and help Madame prepare for bed, and then see about questioning the girls further about this. A thousand thanks to you, my friend, for any help you can give, and for being my friend and ally in this land! I have said it before, but I will say it again, no matter how exceedingly tolerant of my French dramatics you will be looking as you read: I am sorry always that I could not come here with my dear husband and my little Annalise at my side, but I am so glad that, in coming to the land of his birth, I have had you to welcome me as well, and help me accustom myself to this station of ours.

With an affectionate embrace,  
Claudette Walker

 

**24 April, 1818  
Schofield Manor, Skeynes**

_Dearest Cecy,_

Goodness, cousin, what excitement! I very much hope this charm bag is nothing harmful, and only some kind of muddle, but of course you’re quite right to want to know all the facts about any magic going on under your roof.

Unfortunately, I must tell you straightaway that Thomas is traveling to Town on business. He left yesterday. I could, of course, send the bag on to him at the usual address, but he also planned to stop over with some friends along the way, and his business may involve traveling out to Sussex to look at lead mines. Not to mention that Heaven only knows how much these rains will slow travel and complicate any lead mine visits. (What do rains do to lead mines? I haven’t the slightest notion. But anything under the ground must be made particularly miserable by heavy rain, mustn’t it? Even if they have pumps and things?) In short, I cannot be at all certain of reaching him in a timely fashion. Given that, I have taken the liberty of posting the bag off to Aunt Elizabeth, with a request for her and Mr Wrexler to have a look at it. I do hope they can turn up something of use! I would have sent it to Lady Sylvia first, since she is quite the most perceptive person I know, but she is still taking the waters at that terribly elegant spaw in the south of France. I have a suspicion that she is truly there on some matter concerning her old connections with the League of the Pimpernel, but at any rate she is not expected to return until late May at the very earliest.

In the meantime, I did invite Reardon to look at the charm bag with me, just in case she knew anything which might shed any light on the matter. She knows more about charm bags than I, it seems, but not enough to be of any great use. “It doesn’t seem to me to be malevolent,” she said rather doubtfully, “but I would not like to swear to that, for fear of being wrong. It certainly does not seem to be anything especially esoteric. Don’t you think so, my lady?” (After several months of marriage, I have very nearly stopped looking around for my mother-in-law whenever I am called that!) “The cotton is very rough stuff, and there is nothing visible inside but herbs.”

“Yes,” I said, “and it seems very like the sorts of charms one sees in cottages and stables, I think.”

“Yes, my lady. If I were absolutely obliged to guess, I would think it was something of that sort. Common and harmless. But of course I can’t be at all certain.”

“What do you make of the embroidery?” I asked.

“Very sloppy,” said Reardon, quite positively, and with perfect truth. “Any girl who sewed like that, Lady Schofield, I would set to a great deal of practice before I let her mend even a feed sack. If it is indeed a simple protection charm, I suppose it likely to be an S. The girl who found it, I think, is named Suzie. I suppose it might be a Hebrew lamed or a Greek zeta -- perhaps even a nu, upside down. But I see no reason to think whoever made this even had such level of learning as to use Greek or Hebrew.”

“I quite agree,” I said, “but I suppose we must account for all possibilities. And Cecy may be right that it is a lightning bolt or something of the sort instead.”

So there you have it: the sum total of our learning on the subject. (I had to ask Reardon to tell me how to spell the Hebrew. What a useful thing it is to have such a well-educated ladies’ maid!)

I have just thought of one other thing. This may turn out to be nothing at all, but I mention it just in case it is something. Do you think that the charm bag’s fabric looks familiar? I can’t think where I’ve seen it before, so perhaps I’m getting muddled. But you must own that I have a talent for remembering fabric details; remember when we found the old scarf that Aunt Charlotte had made her reticule from? But here I go puffing myself up, and I can’t remember _where_ I saw it. And I think someone has spilt ink all over it. (You certainly must own I have _plenty_ of experience with spilt ink! This one looks like an entire pot was spilt, and then someone tried quite unskilfully to launder it out.) Those great old-fashioned billows of reddish flowers -- at least, I _think_ they were originally reddish -- seem familiar to me, with the little sprays of leaves. It’s quite rough cotton, though, isn’t it? And the pattern must be years old. Nothing I would have bought for myself, nor you, I’m quite certain of that. If anything further comes to me, I shall send word on the instant!

In the meantime, for lack of any more useful information, I simply _must_ fling myself at your feet from afar to complain about Georgy. She is being the greatest peagoose I think she has ever been! A difficult achievement, but I am convinced she is managing it.

The subject of all this featherwittery is her marriage to the Duke of Waltham. She is still convinced that she must make up for having the dreadful luck to meet a rich and titled fiancé in Gloucester rather than during her Season by making sure that their wedding is grand enough for all of the Grand Ton to remember her. Personally, I feel she is making sure they will never forget her, but not in the way she might wish. Any attempt to point this out, of course, either sparks a tirade about what an unfeeling sister I am, or turns her into a watering pot, or both at once. 

The only saving grace is that we are no longer living under the same roof, now that I am married. So she must come over to Schofield Manor to complain. Or I must allow family duty to compel me to visit home, which I would be much happier to do without the twin forces of Georgy’s wedding and Aunt Charlotte’s sermons turning every conversation tedious; still, it happens often enough that I could likely tell you every detail of her wedding gown and wedding breakfast. I am also asked the groom’s opinion on any question. I don’t see how on earth I should be expected to know! Fortunately, I do not seem to be expected to actually answer, although Aunt Charlotte occasionally chides me for my silence and reserve. I do not think she would approve if I did express my feelings. In short, no one will be more delighted than I when Georgy is safely married off and embarked upon her wedding journey to wherever they eventually decide the destination ought to be.

Here is Cook to ask me about tonight’s dinner, so I shall finish my complaining here. Other than the dreary weather, Georgy’s peagoose taking, and Thomas’ absence, I am very well indeed, but I selfishly hope for at least one of the three to be relieved soon.

Your ever affectionate,  
cousin Kate

 

**24 April, 1818  
Schofield Manor, Skeynes**

_Translated from French_

_My dear Walker,_

Of course you did quite right in informing Mrs Tarleton immediately of the trouble. Both of our employers are immensely sensible young ladies. Besides that, if we learned anything of them during that astonishing tangle of a Grand Tour (for of course we learned a great deal of quite astounding things about other matters in the course of it!), it is that they are both inquisitive and intelligent, and would always prefer to be informed of things. Certainly both Lady Schofield and Mrs Tarleton are prompt to act upon what they know, and to do so quite inventively, but they are also quite reasonable in doing so, at least most of the time. Not at all like some rich women, by whom we are both fortunate enough to _not_ be employed. And you may be more dramatic than I in your statements of sentiment (for I am English to my bones, despite my affection for France), but you may rest assured that I share your consciousness of the debt we both owe to their generosity.

I looked at the bag with Lady Schofield. I am sorry to say that my education on magic was rather minimal, except as it concerned the bits and pieces I picked up about Monsieur Champollion’s studies of the ancient world. I can tell you with great certainty that this is neither an Egyptian charm bag nor a Roman, nor an Etruscan. I can tell you something of the different styles of ancient charm bag which this is not. If that dreadful stitching is not meant to represent an S (or a lightning bolt, or a squiggle), I can speculate that perhaps it is a lamed (Hebrew) or an exceptionally poorly rendered zeta or nu (Greek) or any number of characters from the Egyptian Demotic script; I could not tell you precisely which, since scholars have hardly begun to decipher that script, and I am merely a scholar’s servant’s half-tutored daughter. A wonderful parlour trick, my education! Oh, I can see the chiding face you are making at the page, and I assure you I am quite conscious of its value as well, and I am not so humble as to disclaim the use it has been on occasion. But it certainly has its gaps.

At any rate, all I can tell you of immediate use is that it does not seem to be something created by someone with a great deal of magical education. (Nor by someone with a great deal of sewing skill, but that much you could see perfectly well for yourself.) It does not seem to me to be anything malevolent, but I am not so certain as to state that positively. If it’s benignly intended, it may be for protection, or good health, or good luck, or something of that general sort.

The other thing I can tell you is that the fabric seems to me somehow familiar. I do not think it was so dirty and ink-stained when I saw it before, but whether that means it was dirtied in the construction or plucked from the rag-bag, I cannot say. Such a dark old-fashioned block print might well have been merely a rag by now, of course. With all that ink and smudging, I cannot be certain whether the flowers’ original colour was primarily coliquot or claret or even aurora, but the entire thing is certainly well dated, and cheaply made. I will think and see if I can recall it more precisely.

Well, then, here is my understanding of the making of modern English charm bags: they must contain certain herbs in certain proportions, as well as something of the person for whom they are intended. (Hair is the usual, I understand, but fingernail clippings or even blood may also be used. Suzie’s hair seems to have been employed here; her hair is dark and curly, is it not?) Certain spells must also be said over them at some point in the process, although I’m not certain when. It may vary according to the intended purpose. They must be sealed up; the bag’s enchantment is broken as soon as it is opened. 

Anyone making charm bags, therefore, will need to have access to the materials (fabric, needle and thread, herbs from the kitchen or the fields) as well as a little time in privacy to assemble them. Such a person must also have access to the hairbrush or person of the one they wish to give a bag to. Presumably Suzie, in this place. Does she have any particular friends or enemies among the household or the town? If it was under her mattress, and if she did not put it there herself (I assume her hysterics do not have that particular _attention-seeking_ air?) then someone must have delivered it to her room, whether or not that someone is the same person as the one who made the bag.

To turn to lighter matters, I would be greatly obliged if you would send me the receipt for your lavender-water face lotion. If you feel you must guard the secret, I shall of course understand, but Lady Schofield has been complaining of feeling _pulled down_ lately (which I think may be traced directly to her tiresome sister’s door), and I remember how very refreshing we both found your lotion. 

With a friendly embrace,  
Emily Reardon

PS. If I have not thanked you for this opportunity to not only correspond with a friend and colleague, but also to keep my French in good practice, please allow me to do so now. You need not fret in the least that I am doing you a favour by exchanging letters with you in your native tongue. On the contrary, it is quite useful for me. After all -- as you and I know better than many around us, in these quiet towns so relatively untouched by our Continental storms -- who knows what the future may bring? I beg you to regard expressing yourself freely in French as a favour which you are doing me, my friend.

 

**26 April, 1818  
Tangleford Hall, Kent**

_Dearest Kate,_

What a pity about the timing of Thomas’ trip! But thank you very much for your letter, and for forwarding the charm bag to Aunt Elizabeth and Mr Wrexton. It is an excellent notion.

I’m afraid we have nothing much to report on here. One advantage of the excitement: it has lured James away from roofs! It may be selfish to be glad of it, but I am. And he’s exhausted, poor man. (Besides, as I understand it all the roofs which were in any difficulty were fixed. Now it’s largely a matter of shoring up others with modern engineering, so that they’ll stand fast no matter the storms. And _that_ , I think, can be done in a more leisurely fashion.)

Walker is investigating further among the servants, but she has not yet found much of substance, she says. I have been racking my brains trying to recall the fabric you mentioned, but I simply cannot, other than in the charm bag itself. I have a reasonably good head for fabric as well, as you know, so I wonder whether it was something you saw and I did not? I shall continue to cudgel my brains, in any case, and perhaps something will come to me after all.

A dozen times a day, I resist the urge to try magic. I never wanted to do it so much, when I easily could! I tell James he ought to be more distracting. Having nothing in particular to do is so very lowering.

Later: News! Rather disquieting news, but news nonetheless. Walker just arrived, looking troubled.

“Madame,” she said. “The kitchen-maid, Annie, she has just told me a something which I think Madame ought perhaps to hear.”

“Yes?” I said. “What have you learned?”

“Annie, she has told me of an event. Three weeks ago, when the Marquis of Schofield and Lady Schofield were here, a man came to the kitchen. She said he was a very awkward man, very -- how do you say it -- snappish? Very sharp, rather rude. A small man, dark, a tradesman of some sort, not very distinguished. She did not know him. His name, she does not remember. He said that he was a relation of one of Lady Schofield’s under-maids who had come along; Mary, who had care of the laundering.”

“Was he not?” I said, quite perturbed.

“But yes, she thinks he was. Mary came to greet him when she was told of his coming. She did not stay with him in the kitchen; she got leave to go to join him for the evening, so he must of course have been a relation, and this man went away. Only she said he was all the same a strange man, and she did not trust him. He does not live in the town. He travels. I remember some gossip about Mary’s relation who happened to be in the area when she was, and what a delightful coincidence that must have been for her. Eh bien, Annie, she is now very sure that he came with charm bags in his pockets and wished mischief that Mary was not aware of. Me, I am not so sure of this. Perhaps he had nothing at all to do with any of this. But perhaps he did, so I bring it to you, Madame.”

“Well,” I said, “I am very glad you did, Walker. I agree that Annie’s suspicions do not seem enough to base any conclusions on, but we ought to find out more about this fellow.”

I confess, dear cousin, that I haven’t the slightest idea what to make of this story. He certainly sounds potentially sinister, but then again he might simply be one of those awkward muttering fellows who make a simple _hello_ sound off-putting. And one hardly likes to ask one’s servants if their relations might perhaps be villainous schemers. Not to mention that we still have no notion of the purpose of the bag, which seems to me rather an important consideration in whether a villainous schemer might have crept about to stuff it under furniture.

I _do_ wish Aunt Elizabeth had answered your question about the charm bag yet. But I suppose she is being thorough and meticulous as ever, and examining it as carefully as she used to examine our samplers when we were girls, and she would point out every single mistake even if there were dozens to choose from. Do write the moment you receive her letter! And in the meantime, perhaps you and Reardon might inquire delicately with your Mary, if you don’t object.

Incidentally, I can tell that James is still exhausted, because he has not threatened to track down our mysterious visitor above three times, and it has taken very little effort to dissuade him. Of course, some of that may be that he would have to go haring off into dreary weather and away from his expecting wife, but that has not stopped him before when chivalry and heroism (heedless or useful) seemed at stake. So I put it down to exhaustion, and am glad of it. (I hope you do not take this as boasting while you suffer. I do hope Thomas concludes his business and comes home to you soon, my dear.)

Speaking of your suffering, I must say that Georgy sounds like she is making an utter cake of herself! This does not surprise me, but I do wish she would find some sense, particularly for your sake. She ought to know that her wedding, no matter how glorious it may be, will be the talk of the Ton for precisely as long as it takes them to find another glorious event or a diverting scandal. She may as well simply do what makes her happy. But, of course, what makes Georgy happy is being the centre of attention, so I suppose that is precisely what she _is_ doing. I would invite you to discover a sudden need to come on another visit and _support me in my trials_ , but I am mortally afraid that would inspire Aunt Charlotte to do the same. So I suppose we must both continue muddling on, and praying that Georgy suddenly acquires an ability to make up her mind and keep it made up.

By the way, I am enclosing a length of rose silk which I found in a trunk in the attic. James assures me that it is not any kind of an heirloom treasure, but merely something which his mother bought years ago, after which she changed her mind about the colour. As you can see, it’s far too little for a dress, but perhaps you can make it into a shawl? Mrs. Tarleton was quite right to change her mind, for it would not suit her in the least. Nor would it suit me, but deep rose always looks well on you.

_Your frustrated but ever-loving,  
Cecy_

 

**26 April, 1818  
Tangleford Hall, Kent**

_(translated from French)_

_My dear Madame Reardon,_

Of course, you are perfectly welcome to the receipt for my lotion! As a rule, I guard my receipts from strangers, but not from friends. I am happy to entrust to you any receipt you may wish. I enclose it in this letter, along with a receipt for a soothing posset. I found it very sanitative when I was expecting my little Annalise, and Madame has been appreciative of it on certain mornings as well. Since Lady Schofield will no doubt be in the same condition sooner or later, if Providence is kind, I give it to you now against the day when it may be useful to you.

Thank you very much for the information about charm bags. I will not allow you to speak disparagingly of your education -- you, who call me dramatic! I am continually impressed by it. I am quite convinced you know as much as any scholar. Perhaps not so much as Monsieur Tartleton or the Marquis of Schofield, but they are men of rare intelligence and perception, as well as a full scholarly education. You could give many university men a jarring set-down, and I only wish the world were so organized that you could. But if wishes were horses, we would all drive fine carriages to market. The world is as it is, and we are very fortunate to have such comfortable places as we do; I am not at all restless or ungrateful. But I will continue to sing the praises of your fine mind and your broad knowledge, and I shall not be silenced! My dramatic French heart (at which you are pleased to make your tolerant face, I am sure) would not bear it. 

With your information in mind, I have been asking further questions of the household, and keeping my eyes sharp for any evidence of someone who may have been making them. I have not seen anything, nor heard anything that I can be certain of, so I will continue.

I do have an instinct that Jenny, the second laundry-maid, is keeping something back from me. She is a good worker and has always seemed to me a good girl, but she is very loyal to all of her little friends and I think she feels that she is protecting someone from me. As you can see, this is very silly, because truth will always do good rather than harm in a respectable household, but one cannot convince a worried child of that by insisting upon it. 

I think that is doubly true when one has only been in the country a short while, and sounds foreign when she talks. One can see the girls thinking “That is all very well for you, but what does the French Madame know of me?” If only they knew that when one has lived through revolutions and empire and seen foreign powers restore the king’s throne, one knows very well that things like honour and respectability and truth -- yes, and generosity and kindness! -- those are the things that matter most of all. Those are the things it is important to hold to. So I cannot scoff at Jenny’s loyalty, but I think if her loyalty comes without truth it is very misguided. (Of course, I may be wrong in my instinct, but I do not think I am. This instinct of mine, it is very rarely incorrect.)

I have not mentioned this to Madame yet. How can I, when it is only an instinct, and Jenny is only a second laundry-maid? What she is keeping back from me may be something perfectly innocent, something with which even a curious and very kind madame would not concern herself. But I mention it to you, my friend, because you will understand all of my concerns. You will understand it more fully in a moment when I explain to you what I _have_ learned.

You will remember Annie; she is a kitchen-maid here and very much loves her gossip and fancies. She has told me of a man who came to the kitchen some three weeks ago, when your household was here visiting. He was some sort of relation to Mary, your laundry-maid. (I’m not certain of her family name; was it Turns?) She got the evening off to visit with him.

Well, I did not see this relation of hers, but Annie now says that he was low and skulking, rude, abrupt, mysterious, all things dramatic and suspicious. She has decided that he must be some sort of cheap traveling magician with charm bags pouring from his pockets right and left, and that he must be responsible for all of this delicious excitement. (She is of the age where all excitement is delicious. I must keep a closer eye on Annie; it is clear she can only benefit from supervision to keep her mind on respectable matters until she has grown up a little more.) The rest of the kitchen staff who saw him is less convinced of his villainy, but does concur that he was stiff and abrupt and endeared himself to no one, and that he had that certain sort of shabbiness which often surrounds a traveling magician. I suppose they must spend all hours mixing this and that and crawling through hedgerows to acquire ingredients, without the good candles and well-lit studies that a properly trained and wealthy wizard such as the Marquis of Schofield enjoys.

Of course, one cannot really credit that a traveling magician managed to hide a charm bag under Suzie Brown’s bed in the course of a few minutes’ wait in the kitchen. But it is possible that he gave one to Mary, for some reason or another, which made its way to Suzie. At any rate, Mary may be able to either shed light on this matter, or dispel this unfortunate suspicion cast upon her relation. 

I do hope we will soon know whether the bag was intended for good or ill. It is very wearing to have the maker’s motives so very much a mystery. Poor little Suzie does not seem to be enjoying her time at the centre of gossip at all. It will content her a great deal, I think, if it turns out that this bag was meant to wish her luck or protection, and not ill.

By the way, I have been thinking about the fabric you spoke of. I cannot remember seeing it before. But it does seem to me the sort of old, dark, sturdy fabric that may have been a petticoat or dress for a working woman last, don’t you think? Certainly it’s long out of fashion. You and I would never wear such a thing these days, let alone a fine lady. But it would not look at all amiss on a maid or a farmer’s daughter who had made over some old dress for the fifth or sixth time, and it would hide dirt well even before all that ink got on it. You have likely already thought of this, but it’s my only contribution on the subject, I’m afraid.

I hope all is well with you otherwise, my dear Reardon. I am quite well myself, aside from all this bustle. I will be glad when this matter is resolved! If nothing else, I will not cover an entire page in discussion of it, and will be able to devote a greater proportion of my letters to simpler amiable conversation.

With sincere thanks, once again, and an affectionate embrace for you,  
Claudette Walker

 

**27 April, 1818  
Schofield Manor, Skeynes**

_Dearest Cecy,_

I have received a letter from Aunt Elizabeth! I sat down to write you straightaway. I enclose a copy of it, since she uses some magical terms which I do not quite understand, and which you may. 

(I have taken the trouble to copy it, because she has some choice words about Georgy’s behaviour which are every bit as sharp as anything she ever directed at us, and I wish to hold them to my heart and reread them in my sourest and least sisterly moods. I am currently repenting of those moods, I will admit, because Georgy was a good deal more tolerable the last time I saw her. “Kate, you _do_ think this wedding will go well, do you not?” she said, with a plaintiveness that was quite real, and rather affecting. Most unlike the dramatic line she has been taking. “I know I am all in the goosecap frets, but I only want to be happy. You are so very happy with Thomas. I am very fond of Daniel, but one cannot _know_ , can one?” I called her a silly goose and told her that the wedding would have very little to do with a happy marriage, but I felt warm and sisterly to her all the rest of the visit, and paid compliments to her every decorating whim with a good heart. She is a kind soul really, and cannot help being a peagoose. But I’m sure my exasperation will return sooner or later, and I want to reread Aunt Elizabeth’s letter when it does.)

At any rate, the gist of Aunt Elizabeth’s letter, as you will see, is that the charm bag is not at all a harmful one. You’re quite right that she was every bit as slow and maddeningly thorough as she used to be with our samplers! She lists off a bewildering array of spells which she used to examine it. I hope that will be of use to you; it is all so much Greek to me. Her conclusion, however, is that it is a basic protection-and-luck bag, put together without much skill. It sounds as if the magic and the sewing is all of a piece, don’t you think?

I confess, I don’t know what to make of your story about this man. Certainly I can’t think of any complaints about Mary, and I am sure that Reardon would have told me if there were anything she felt I needed to know. But perfectly reasonable people can have dreadful relations, after all. Just look at -- well, I suppose Dorothea was not actually related to Miranda, so that is a bad example. But look at Mr and Mrs Featherby’s terrible son, back in Rushton. And perfectly nice people can seem quite awkward and abrupt. But all the same, it certainly seems worth taking some care to see what sort of fellow he really is, and if he had anything at all to do with this business! Reardon says she didn’t meet him herself, but she will investigate.

Thank you very much for the rose silk, and please tell James thank you for his generosity (on behalf of his mother) as well! It’s lovely, and you’re quite right that it suits me. I think I will have my second-best summer bonnet retrimmed with it. After which, it will likely become my very best summer bonnet!

Here comes the footman to collect the post, so I shall hasten to finish this so your mind can be relieved as soon as possible. 

_All my love,  
Kate_

 

**27 April, 1818  
Schofield Manor, Skeynes**

_(translated from French)_

_My dear Walker,_

Thank you very much for both receipts. I have placed them in my personal papers, and I assure you that no one will learn them from me except with your express permission. In return, I enclose my own receipt for a soothing cowcumber wash, which I have found ladies to greatly appreciate in warmer weather than we, alas, enjoy now.

Thank you also for the information about our Mary Ternan. I do remember that her uncle visited while we were in Kent, but I did not meet him myself. Mary is out on her half-day at present, and as a local girl she has leave to spend the night with her family, but rest assured that I shall question her the instant she returns. 

I remember now that Mary came to us in January in a very old-fashioned dress, which she immediately shed for her maids’ uniform, and an even more elderly petticoat which was fit for nothing but the rag-bag. If it was not the fabric of that charm bag, it was at least something quite similar. Unfortunately, I could not swear which. Perhaps this is all a fuss over nothing, and she simply has the misfortune to have an uncle who looked suspicious to an overimaginative kitchen-maid. There is no shame in that. Indeed, it cannot possibly be so bad as little Annie so gleefully imagines; as you will be relieved to hear, Mrs Wrexton, Lady Schofield’s magician aunt, has declared the charm bag to be a clumsy but benign charm for protection and luck. So whatever Mary’s uncle may be, he is certainly not scattering evil spells like May blossoms wherever he goes. In any case, if she _is_ keeping back something important about magic being worked under either of our employers’ roofs, I will put a stop to it immediately.

I will send this now, but you may expect another first thing tomorrow with further news, whatever that news may be.

_With a friendly embrace,  
Emily Reardon_

 

**28 April, 1818  
Schofield Manor, Skeynes**

_Dearest Cecy,_

The mystery is solved! And a great relief to all of us, I am quite certain. You may tell James to stop fretting upon the instant, and your little scullery maid too. I shall tell it in order so I don’t forget anything.

This morning just after breakfast, Reardon dragged one of our maids up to my chamber. With a start, I recognized Mary Ternan, the laundry girl you spoke of. “Mary has something to say to you, my lady,” she said, rather grimly.

“Well, Mary?” I said, as crisply as I could. “What is it?”

Crispness was evidently the wrong tack to take, for Mary burst into tears. She is I believe fourteen years old, so very much of the age to be a watering pot, and it took a few minutes to get any intelligible words from her. Eventually, however, I gleaned that she had been making charm bags in secret, for fear of being turned off for working magic unapproved. Now that she had been caught, she was terrified that she would be sent away upon the instant, without wages or reference. I don’t know where she could have gotten the notion that I am such a dragon as that! But the poor girl was shaking in her shoes. “You mustn’t blame my uncle, my lady,” she sobbed at least three times. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lady, but you mustn’t, he’s as good and kind as anything. He can’t help that he looks so scowling, for he always has. Even at Christmas he does, but he never did nothing wrong, not to anyone, never.”

Under the circumstances, I thought it best to set grammatical lessons aside. “Of course I will not blame him for a thing, if he did nothing wrong,” I said soothingly. Then understanding struck. “Was it he who taught you to make charm bags?”

Mary nodded.

“He does not seem to have taught you very well,” said Reardon, in dry tones. I thought this perhaps a little unjust, since the pupil’s work does not always reflect the teacher. Certainly the consensus is that Mary’s sewing and her charms could both stand improvement, however.

Mary twisted her hands in her handkerchief. “Uncle Billy travels all the time,” she said hoarsely. “He sells charms to them as need them. He’s a businessman, my lady, an honest businessman. Nobody else in my family has the talent for magic. So I don’t have but a little time now and again to learn from him. He taught me a bit the afternoon I got leave to visit with him, but I asked him to. I wanted to help my friends! I never wanted but to help them. Give them a little luck and health. And Suzie, she was that homesick, brand new to her first place away from her little sisters, so I thought to help her have an easier time of it. That’s all, my lady. But I was afraid I might be turned away for doing magic that’s not my place to do. So I didn’t tell anybody. I didn’t want to ask them to keep my secret. I used my own old petticoat and herbs from the fields. I didn’t steal a thing from the house, not a thing. I’m not a thief. Did I do very wrong, my lady?” (I have tidied this up considerably from how she said it, which was punctuated with sniffles and nose-blowing.)

“Well,” I said, “you do not seem to have done anything very wrong, except in not telling anyone what you were doing. Poor little Suzie had no idea who had been putting charms under her bed. She was quite frightened. And who ever gave you the notion that you would be turned off for a simple charm bag?”

Mary’s reply was full of weeping and not very coherent. I believe, if I interpreted her correctly, that it is a general opinion of her family that magic is a very perilous activity, which is the province of specialized men of business, interfering old women, and the educated classes; therefore, Mary being none of the three, she had no business learning from her uncle and even less business doing anything which Thomas and I might see as intruding upon our own domain.

“You are a silly little goose,” I told her in the end, rather gently I think. “But it is clear you were a well-intentioned goose, and a very frightened one. I think you have learned better, have you not?”

“Yes, my lady!” she cried. “I will never make a charm bag again, I swear it!”

“That is not at all what I had in mind,” I said. “If you have the native talent to make charm bags, and the desire to use your magic to do good to your fellow creatures, then that ought to be cultivated. If you wish, I am sure we can arrange for you to have some kind of tutoring to develop your magical talent. All I ask in return is that Reardon, Thomas -- the Marquis, that is -- and I be kept informed about all your magical doings, and that you never do anything to harm anyone of this household or against our express commands. Does that seem a fair bargain?”

(I do hope, by the way, that Thomas does not think of any further strictures I ought to impose. If he disagrees with me about this basic plan, I shall certainly talk him round, for I am quite convinced that it’s the only sensible way to proceed, not to mention the only plan that’s kind to young Mary. But I have been feeling very satisfied about how I handled the situation, so it would be dreadfully lowering if, having laid out a decisive plan before Mary, I then was obliged to go back and say “Oh, and by the way, there are one or two other things...”)

She stared at me, dumbstruck, and then nodded almost frantically, and bobbed me the deepest curtsey I have ever seen her attempt.

Reardon, who had been listening to all of this with a sort of severely approving expression, had a final word to put in. “Magical talent or no, you will also be obliged to practice your sewing a good deal more. Even if those bags were made hastily and in secret, they were frightfully sloppy. Lady Schofield is being extremely generous with you, Mary, and you will repay her by being a credit to this household.”

“I sewed them in the dark, ma’am, so not even Jenny would see,” mumbled Mary, but she looked very cowed. Personally, I think that if I were to sew a charm bag in the dark, in snatched moments of secrecy, it would look a great deal worse than hers! But Reardon did not look at all softened. So Mary bobbed her curtsey again -- and again and again, so that she looked rather like a child’s rocking toy -- and promised tearfully to practice her sewing, and to practice her magic, and that she would never forget it, never, and please do tell Suzie how very sorry she is to have frightened her.

So all’s well that ends well, my dear! Perhaps by the next time Thomas and I come to visit you, we shall have a little magician-maid in tow, and the two of your can talk charm bags to your hearts’ content. Do please pass along the word to little Suzie, and generally reassure your household that it was only some overzealous kindness at work.

I have been ignoring a note from Aunt Charlotte all this time in favour of writing to you. I was quite content to do so, since I am entirely certain that this is the more pressing matter as well as the more interesting one! But I suppose I ought to turn my attention that way, and be a dutiful niece, if only in the interests of sparing myself a peal on Young Women’s Ingratitude. All my love to you and James, dear cousin!

_Your loving and exceedingly self-satisfied,  
cousin Kate_


End file.
